


i can tell just what you want

by llyrical



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Filthy, Humiliation, Kavinsky is his own warning, M/M, Smut, Spanking, degradation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyrical/pseuds/llyrical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Being able to embarrass Joseph Kavinsky is a power trip that Proko doesn’t want to end.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or: K has a secret daddy kink and Proko ends up in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can tell just what you want

**Author's Note:**

> I never once thought that I'd write a Kavinsky/Proko fic, let alone a DADDY KINK Kavinsky/Proko fic, but tumblr user adamprrishcycle was talking about K having a daddy kink and I just died a bit. So this is dedicated to them.
> 
> This is utter filth. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Title is from "What You Know" by Two Door Cinema Club.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [Prokopinskys!](https://prokopinskys.tumblr.com)

It starts as a joke, as many things do.

Kavinsky, having inexplicably taken notice of the fact that Prokopenko had eaten nothing but junk food that day, had looked at his McDonalds fries in disdain and snarled, “Jesus, Proko. Eat a fucking vegetable.” 

K isn’t one to talk, of course, as Proko isn’t sure he’s seen him ingest anything other than booze and pills all day. But he still rolls his eyes, shoving a fry in his mouth before taking a drag of his cigarette, and drawls, “Sure, _Daddy._ ” 

It’s just a joke, a sarcastic remark, but K immediately goes red, eyes widening at Proko. It’s almost comical, how out-of-place it looks on him. 

Something else flashes in his eyes, something dark and possessive, before it’s gone.

Prokopenko is still staring, surprised by this response. Kavinsky is quick to shake himself out of it, shotgunning a beer before sending Proko a glare that could have melted steel. He reels back, but just barely; if anybody has gotten good at dealing with K in his moods, it’s Proko. 

“ _What_?” he snaps. It’s a rhetorical question; he’s already cracking open another beer, dragging his burning eyes off of Proko. “Take a fucking picture.” 

But it’s too late; the die has been cast.

\-----

He has to test it. 

Kavinsky would kill him if he knew what Proko was thinking, but it’s almost worth the risk. Days later, Proko still isn’t able to get that look out of his mind. 

The next time he finds himself sprawled across K’s lap, a hand lazily carding through his hair, he decides to go for it. He sits up suddenly, causing K to make a small grunt of surprise, and is quick to straddle the boy underneath him. 

K doesn’t seem unhappy with this turn of events, dragging his attention to Proko from the TV where he’d been watching Jiang, Skov, and Swan play Mario Kart. His hands come up to grip Proko’s hips, and he barely reacts when Proko leans in to kiss him.

He lets Proko lead for half a second before one of his hands moves up to fist in his hair and then K is as in charge as ever, lips bruising against Proko’s and fingers digging into his skin. Kavinsky’s teeth drag against Proko’s bottom lip and Proko moans, rolling his hips down against K’s. 

“What’s got you in such a mood?” Kavinsky asks breathily as Proko’s lips attach to his throat. Prokopenko may be on top, may be making most of the moves, but K’s hand fisted tightly in his hair is a welcome reminder that he is far from in charge. 

“Just you,” Proko murmurs, nipping at Kavinsky’s ear and delighting when he feels K’s cock twitch against him. After a moment, he lowers his voice and continues, “... Daddy.” 

K’s hips snap up against his before he’s freezing, hands tightening their hold on Prokopenko. The hand in his hair rips him back, and Proko has to bite back a moan at the sensation. 

Kavinsky’s eyes are darting around the room, as if he’s ever cared before about their pack watching them. As if he’s ever been anything less than shameless. 

Had Proko just found Joseph Kavinsky’s weakness?

The idea is alluring in more ways than one. 

K’s lips draw back in a snarl; it’s obvious he can see that Proko is planning something, and he isn’t happy about it. “Blow me,” he snaps.

Proko isn’t certain if it’s a command or just a comeback, but he’s already shaking free of K’s hold on him and slipping down off the couch and onto his knees. 

K spreads his legs, not reacting when Proko’s hands move skillfully to undo his jeans. 

This is what Prokopenko is good at; this is where he belongs, on his knees for Joseph Kavinsky with one of K’s hands fisted in his hair and the other pressing into the couch. 

He sucks K off with the sounds of Mario Kart in the background, accompanied by the occasional angry shout as one of the boys is hit with a red shell. After K has finished, holding Proko’s head in place until he’s swallowed, he drags Proko back up onto his lap. 

Proko is slightly surprised when K’s hands go immediately to his own jeans; most of the time, he leaves Proko to take care of himself. He manages not to squeak when K bites down on his neck, instead leaning into the touch and bracing his arms on either side of the other boy. 

“You’ve been such a good little slut,” K whispers in his ear. Proko can’t help himself; he moans, long and low. “Let me take care of you.”

\-----

The teasing can’t last. Not with Kavinsky. 

But Prokopenko still tries his hardest.

He slips in the word ‘daddy’ whenever he can, whether it’s said jokingly in a casual conversation or moaned when Kavinsky bends him over the hood of his car, hands tight around Proko’s wrists. Each time, it’s in front of others, and each time, K reacts the same: a flutter of lust before his embarrassment takes over and he tries to ignore it. 

Being able to embarrass Joseph Kavinsky is a power trip that Proko doesn’t want to end.

But it has to come to an end eventually. Proko knows that. 

And maybe there’s a reason he’s pushing so hard.

\-----

At their next lot party, K breaks. 

They’ve been here for a few hours, and there’s not a single sober person on the lot. It’s probably not a great mix, the booze and the drugs and the fireworks, but they haven’t died yet.

Leaning up against the Mitsu, Proko bumps his hip against K’s. A hundred feet away, someone has set another car on fire. Loud dubstep plays out of somebody’s Lambo. 

K offers him his red solo cup. Proko downs it without bothering to ask what it is or what K slipped into it. 

A guy who Proko doesn’t know has stripped down to his briefs and is running across the lot with a sparkler in his hand, yelling something about anarchy. When he flicks his eyes over to Kavinsky, the other boy is watching the show with the bored, tired look of someone who’s seen all of this before.

Time to spice things up a bit, it seems.

Proko downs the rest of the drink. It burns on the way down, but he doesn’t make a face. When the cup is empty, he tosses it off to the side, but it doesn’t go very far. 

“Hey.” Proko slips his fingers into the pocket of K’s jeans, stepping in front of him and caging K against the Mitsu. His free hand comes up to run through K’s hair. “Why don’t we get out of here, _Daddy_?” 

This time, there’s no hesitance, no shock. Only that dark look flashing in K’s eyes before Proko finds himself being flipped and slammed against the door of the Mitsu. 

He’s winded even before K’s hand fists in his hair, leaving him no choice but to make eye contact.

“You little _bitch_ ,” K snarls, raising his voice to be heard over the music. He’s only pinning one of Proko’s hands, but he’d never even consider moving the other one. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t fuck you right here and show everybody what a fucking _slut_ you are for me.” 

Prokopenko pushes his hips up, groaning in desperation when he realizes that K has kept himself just out of range. “Do it,” he moans. 

Kavinsky makes a low, throaty noise. He leans in, scraping his teeth brutally against the sensitive skin of Proko’s throat before growling, “What, you _wanna_ show everybody what a little slut you are for Daddy?”

Proko’s head falls back against the car as a moan escapes him. It may have started as a joke, but he’s fallen as deep as Kavinsky. He can’t deny that that’s what he wants. 

K holds him for a moment longer before releasing him and snarling, “Get in the fucking car.”

\-----

He’s naked before they reach the bedroom, but he knows that he’s far from release from the moment K shoves him forward and bends him over the bed. 

“Stay still,” Kavinsky orders, leaning over him. “I’m going to spank you for being such a fucking teasing whore, and you’re going to count.”

Proko draws in a sharp breath. “F-fuck, K, wait-” 

K’s hand connects with his ass before he can say anything more. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Proko moans. 

And then he’s being dragged up sharply by his hair, Kavinsky’s voice in his ear snarling, “I thought I told you to fucking _count,_ slut. Starting from one.” 

He jumps a bit at the next smack, but this time, he gasps out, “One.” He arches his back, body betraying him. 

The next smack is harder. “Stay still. You want to be good for Daddy, don’t you?” 

He can hear the smirk in K’s voice, imagine the dark look in his eyes. He’s using the voice he uses when he’s in control; the voice he uses when he knows he can get anything. 

It’s intoxicating.

“T-two. A-and yes.”

Another smack. “Yes _what_?”

The noise that leaves him is involuntary. “Y-yes, Daddy.” He’s biting into the skin of his arm, trying to ignore the way his cock is straining against his stomach. He’s never been this hard in his life. 

A moment too late, he adds, “And.. three. That was three.” 

“Is it really that hard to _count_ , Proko?” K lands three sharp slaps in rapid succession. Proko is too overwhelmed to count them. “Let’s start over, then.”

By the time they make it to twenty, they’ve started over another three times and Prokopenko’s ass is stinging. He can already imagine sitting down tomorrow, constantly reminded of this moment and growing hard at the thought of Kavinsky treating him like this. 

“ _Please,_ ” he whines when it seems K is done spanking him, still a looming presence behind him. “Please, K.” 

K grabs him by the hair again. “What was that?” he snarls, biting at the back of Proko’s neck and sucking a mark into the skin. He’s already covered in hickeys from the past week, but he relishes in the idea of a fresh mark. A fresh claim.

Proko exhales sharply. “Please, Daddy.” It comes out more pleading than he expected it to, and it must have caught Kavinsky off guard as well, because he moans as he presses his still-clothed hips against Proko’s ass.

K licks a stripe up his neck, whispering, “Are you ready to be a good boy?”

Proko doesn’t have any pride left to swallow at this point. His cock is leaking, pressed against his stomach, and yet he still feels like he’s centuries away from getting relief. He knows when K wants him to beg, though, and so he throws himself into the act as he moans, “Yes, Daddy, _please_ , I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you, Daddy, please just _fuck me_ -” 

And then K is shoving two fingers into him dry, and it burns so bad but it’s still _something_ and Prokopenko doesn’t even care that he’s throwing his head back and moaning like a whore. 

K doesn’t waste much time with the prep, and Proko doesn’t even care. He’s taken K with no prep at all before, and even though it hurt for days, he found every second of pain to be a pleasant reminder of this. What he gets, and no one else does.

When he hears K’s shirt hit the ground and his zipper being pulled down, Proko props himself up on his elbows. His skin is slick with sweat and he’s going to need a long shower after this, but for now, he’s buzzing.

When Kavinsky finally thrusts into him in one quick, sharp movement, any hesitation that Proko may have had about this particular kink is thrown out the window. There’s a hand in his hair and a dick in his ass and Prokopenko is moaning, “ _Daddy,_ ” like he’s forgotten every other word in his vocabulary. 

And K is loving it. He’s rougher than usual, nails scraping down Proko’s side and hand in his hair keeping him exactly where K wants him. 

“This is what you get,” he growls, still thrusting, “for being such a little _slut_.” 

Proko shoves back against him, whimpering in a mix of pain and pleasure. He’s slightly light-headed, and he’s not sure if it’s from the booze or the sensations. “I-if this is what being a slut gets me,” he pants, “then maybe I’ll have to be a slut more often.” 

K pulls out immediately, and Proko groans in complaint even as he’s flipped on his back. 

Then he’s slapped across the face, and his cock twitches against his stomach. 

Kavinsky shoves Proko’s legs up against his chest and thrusts back in, snarling, “I thought you said you were going to be _good_ for Daddy.” 

Proko grabs ahold of K like a lifeline. He’s already close even without being touched, and if he knows Kavinsky, he is, too. “I _am_ ,” he protests, though it comes out on a gasp when K angles himself differently and slams into his prostate. “I thought you _liked_ it when I was a slut for you.”

Kavinsky uses his hand to push his head back, exposing his neck which K is quick to attack with his teeth. “I do,” he admits, albeit reluctantly, and likely only because he’s close and lust-clouded. “My little whore.”

“Yours,” Proko gasps. He wants to reach for his cock, desperately wants the contact, but he fears what K would do if he dared touch himself without permission.

“Mine,” K agrees, the word coming out a possessive growl, and he comes with a moan.

Proko wants K to touch him, but in the end, he doesn’t even need him to. He cries out, “Daddy!” and his vision goes spotty as he releases over both of their stomachs.

K pulls out unceremoniously, collapsing onto the bed next to him. Neither of them move to clean themselves up, nor do they even entertain the thought of post-coital cuddling. They just lay there in the dark, breathing heavily, until K eventually fumbles around on the nightstand for a lighter and a box of cigarettes. 

He puts one between Proko’s lips and lights it before his own, which Proko thanks him for with a nod. They smoke in silence, Kavinsky spent and Prokopenko well-fucked. 

“So,” Proko says eventually, voice a bit hoarse, “you have a-”

“Don’t even fucking talk about it,” K snaps.

Proko smiles. He’s finally found the one thing that K is secretive about, and he can’t even hold it over him. Not in a bad way, at least. 

The smoke from their cigarettes curl above them in the air like dragons. When Proko presses a bit closer to K’s side, the other boy doesn’t even protest.


End file.
